Into the Arms of Strangers: Stories of the Kindertransport Page #11

... and of love.

I suddenly felt it and fought it.

But I felt, you know, I knew it was them.

We met.

Kurt's father, who was more

demonstrative than the mother...

...put his hand through Kurt's curls...

...and Kurt went like that,

and gave him a wallop.

And my husband says,

"Don't you ever do that again, Kurt.

"Your father is showing you his affection."

And that was that.

When it came to say

good-bye to the Cohens...

...I realized for the first time,

I think, consciously that...

...they had loved me, especially Percy...

...because he was in tears,

and I'd never seen him cry...

...Id never seen him cry before.

Then we had to leave him.

I remember him looking back.

It was very, very sad.

He didn't want to go.

He didn't know them.

My parents let go of a 7-year-old

and got back a 16-year-old.

And my mother, especially...

... wanted to carry on where she'd left off.

And a 16-year-old doesn't like

to be treated like a 7-year-old.

So, when we got back to France,

things were very difficult.

Of course, I'm very lucky. I realize this.

Where as most of the Kinder

never saw their parents again.

I not only had mine back,

but another set of parents as well.

What more could one ask for?

I ceased to be a child when

I boarded the train in Prague.

It's strange that it's only

six years out of a long life...

...and those six years will

affect the rest of your life.

I never belonged when I was a child.

I wanted somewhere to find roots.

I feel in, the latter years of

my life, that I've been accepted.

And nobody's ever said to me:

"You weren't born in this country."

I was as entirely accepted

as everyone else.

And I gradually felt...

... I had somewhere I belonged.

To be a refugee

is the most horrible feeling...

... because you lose your family,

you lose your home...

... you're also without an identity.

Suddenly, you're a nothing.

You are just reliant on other people's...

... good nature, and

help, and understanding.

That's why, I think, living in Israel...

...I feel for the new immigrants. I feel

for the Russians, and the Ethiopians...

...and anybody who's new,

especially if they come without families.

If I can do anything, I do it.

I am dazzled,

from the point of view of a writer.

Who else has

the unbelievably good fortune...

... to live with the Jewish manufacturer...

... the English

working-class union man...

... railroad stoker, the milkman...

... and the Anglo-Indian

Victorian ladies?

Whoever has the sheer...

...but being a helpless member

from the inside of these families?

Seems to me it was a gift.

Didn't seem so at the time.

I now look at my 14-year-old grandson...

... and I think, "This is the age when I lost...

"...parents, home, country."

A lot has been made up to

me from where I lost out.

I have a second cousin here.

He says:
"Anything you haven't had,

you've got now." Which is so true.

And I'm very grateful

and very proud of the whole family.

The younger you were, the more

unforgiving you are of your parents.

You may say they were

so brave and saved you...

... but they really abandoned you.

We were four friends, very close friends.

We all agreed:

"If it ever happens again,

we will not send away our children.

"We will stay and die together."

That's what we said.

Later on, as we grew older,

we said we mitigated it, we said:

"If it ever happens, we promise

to take each other's children in.

"We will not send them to strangers."

I certainly do my

share of remembering...

... but remembering also has to have

a present and future perspective.

You can't just stop at remembering.

I don't think I ever made

a conscious decision...

... to devote myself to human rights...

... and social justice issues.

Someone helped me.

I can't pay back or thank

some of the people who helped me...

... but I can do something for other people.

I've come to a conclusion about myself:

In 1938, I escaped

the deportation of Poland.

I got out of Germany

in the Kindertransport.

I was sent to Australia on a ship.

The ship was torpedoed

and nothing happened.

I got back to England and was in the army.

Why all these coincidences?

I've come to one conclusion:

I was meant to survive.

Not because of myself...

...but because the Jews were to survive.

And I would bring up another generation.

And they would live. I look at my

children and my grandchildren...

...and I know that there was

a purpose to my life.

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